Reading has always been my drug of choice. I choose to medicate my senses with words rather than chemicals. I’ve been bookworm as long as I can remember. As a kid, summer vacation meant bringing as many books home from the library as I could carry. My reading room was a tent built by clothes-pinning mom’s sheets and towels to the fence and backs of lawn chairs. I passed hours reading in my makeshift tent, soothed by the familiar summer sounds of lawnmowers, neighbors voices, and prop planes droning towards the nearby air force base.
With the exception of the backyard tent, nothing much has changed since childhood. With a book in my hands, I hold the rudder of the craft that whisks me through the space-time continuum and on until morning. I can try another time period on for size, immerse myself in another country and culture, and explore the emotional depths of someone’s life journey. Looking out at the world from behind someone elses eyes sometimes allows me to view the slide show of my own life with a healthy detachment. I can disengage, stand back, and see The Big Picture. A least most of the time.
I’ve always preferred books written by woman. I find women to be more complex creatures than men, and their perspectives are richer and more interesting. Broad statement (excuse the pun), but there you have it! But every once in a while I stumble across a book, written by a man, that challenges this perspective, as was the case with Roxanne Slade, written by Reynolds Price. I actually picked this one up and read it without ever reading the bio of the author. I was honestly stunned when I realized this deeply honest story, told from the POV of an elderly woman looking back on her life, had come from the heart and imagination of a male author. Here’s my review on Goodreads. If you haven’t read this one, I recommend giving it a try.
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